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My flying car (if Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s that the future always contains flying cars) will be yellow and I’ll use it to pick up men.

Alternatively, I could use it to buzz around with my pack of wild, free-range french bulldogs (you know, in case by that point I have no interest in the opposite sex-having outlived all seven of my husbands-mwhahahaha).

Though I suppose it would have to be an SUV version to accomodate myself and the pack…..

Who doesn’t love the image of an old lady in a cape, her imaginary Zilla friend, and a pack of snorting hogdogs buzzing around Paris in 2082?

Oh yes, did I mention, I’ll be living in Paris at that time.

Not a huge stretch really, considering I live here now, but whatever, a lot could happen between then and now.

No wait, a lot will happen by then. Such as:

-My sandwich-chain shop Zilla’s will start in Paris, but then spread rapidly like a global plague, enticing individuals regardless of race, religion, gender, or sexual preference….scents of the delicious snacks will permeate the atmosphere. This will be the reason aliens come to earth, uttering “take me to your deli”, in a trance-like manner.

-Reruns from the nineties will still be playing endlessly on television to numb the brains of children, but they will refer to the shows as “AFTY” (archaic funny from times of yore). They will only speak in abbreviations by this point, as there is simply not enough time to formulate comprehensive sentences.

-Pet goldfish will be a long-lost thing of the past as a result of the great cat-cultural-revolution lasting between 2056-2065. Also, cats will be severely monitored for suspicious behavior and it will take until 2089 for people to discover the UFA (underground feline association) – a terrorist operation spreading miles deep within the belly of the Earth. Fortunately, I will be dead by then, so this doesn’t particularly matter for me, but figured I’d give a heads up.

-Plastic surgery will become known as TYWWLLR (those years when women willingly looked like robots), and anyone carving into their own face to change it completely will be considered an outcast. The switch doesn’t happen until 2038 and is a result of a gas leak, silicon, and something called GYNRYM “grow your own nose, remove your own in minutes-as seen on tv!!”

-Also, I will have my own version of monopoly. As should we all, dear readers, as should we all.

There’s more, but I don’t want to spoil it all for you. Just figured I’d give you a little peak at some of the great things to occur in my 101 years. Something tells me you all have plans of your own…..

Happy Birthday Great Grandma, I’m not sure how you’ve managed to deal with us all for this long, but here you are, 101 years later….

Standing there with what looks like a strainer woven with pipe cleaners on her head, she puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat until I acknowledge her presence.

As if I’m not busy enough sorting out current self. I’m expected to entertain future Ryan just because she falls in love with a mad-scientist sometime around 2019 and steals his time machine after she finds him in bed with her tailor?

Sigh.

She never has anything positive to say. Just a whole lotta judgement about what 29 year old Zilla is doing with her life. Well you know what? We can’t all be mad-scientist muses. It’s a select group lady, and clearly; I’m not there yet.

The first time she showed up she was 84 year old me. She got all offended that I couldn’t recognize her. Also, she smelled like Fritos so it’s good to know that they serve those in whichever asylum becomes my home in 2064.

Today was 53 year old Ryan. Rocking stilettos and massive jewellery. I couldn’t get her to tell me how she came to own such lovely possessions, which was annoying. She smelled good though, so the descent into bathing in corn-chips clearly doesn’t happen until much, much later.

She told me to keep writing and to be more responsible. I raised my eyebrow at her on the latter point, but she pretended like she didn’t notice.

No one wearing kitchen supplies as a helmet has the right to lecture me on responsibility.

She wouldn’t tell me winning lottery numbers (claims she wouldn’t remember them even if she tried-of all things, I find this most believable). She wouldn’t tell me if she has children or if they drive her crazy. Though the long sigh and nod of exhaustion indicate a daughter capable of my own antics in my future.

She laughs menacingly when I ask her how many times she’s been married.

Which of course I find comforting.

The only thing she’ll tell me is to keep writing.

Seems to have done her some good. Her sense of humor still dominates her personality. She deleted the first draft of this post. Her expression while doing so indicated she thought that was downright hysterical and thus merited a victory dance.

53 year old Ryan dances no better than her younger version.

Then she popped out of the air while giggling. The last I heard was a shout that sounded like:

‘stock up on tight pants in 2011. You’re gonna need them!!”

So it’s really not my fault that I went shopping this afternoon.

Was just taking the advice of someone older, wiser, and more sophisticated.

I’m pretty sure that’s a universal law. Just like gravity and (evidently down the road) time travel.

My brother thinks we should move to Thailand and open up a backpacking hostel.

I’m not so sure I’d be able to handle that much hippy.

Not that I wouldn’t be willing to give it a try. I’m sure the opportunity for adventure and writing material would be vast.

He’ll report back on the situation, I’m sure. He just left this morning, so I’m expecting an email within the next two weeks casually mentioning his intentions of marrying a local.

With Kid-Ginger, anything is possible.

Plus I recommended he read The Alchemist on the trip. What better advice to give a brother than-hit the road, don’t look back, and go make your own journey?

I can feel my father’s expression as he reads that last sentence. It’s bothered my parents for some time that I’ve been able to -ahem-casually suggest ideas for Kid-Ginger since he was quite small.

I can’t count the amount of times my mother has stared at him, exasperated, and muttered:

“Why, why on Earth do you keep listening to your sister? Stop it. Just stop listening to what she tells you to do-honestly.”

She may have been on to something the day I blindfolded him and fed him anchovy paste. But I don’t think he really understood until nearly ten years later, when I decided to give him a ‘cool’ haircut.

I’ve somehow managed to convince three people in my life that I am capable of cutting hair.

He was my first victim.

Things were going well when I shaved off the sides of his head, and let longer red locks fall over the buzz underneath. This was the nineties and we were in Seattle, so the grungy, mohawk potential was cool at the time.

For the record, he enjoyed the modern art on his scalp for the first week. Like a little bad-ass, he ran across the soccer field, scoring goals while donning a look my father would later refer to as ‘white-trash chic’.

bad.ass.

If my mother hated the artwork on his head at that point, she despised it a week later when I again came at him with scissors. We were eating sandwiches on the porch, when I glanced at my 11 year old sibling and said:

I’m considering starting a rhythmic performance art show with kid-Ginger.

True, I have limited musical talent (save for interpretive dance and on a good day-finger symbols). There’s also the minor detail that my brother doesn’t play any instruments. But what American dream hasn’t started on the bitter cement of nothing?

None dear reader, absolutely none.

I suppose this logic could be applied to potential careers in other industries, but I’m sticking to music. Besides, if we slap the genre post-modern on our vision, I don’t see how we can go wrong.

Let me set the stage (or street corner-as I’m thinking this is the most likely first venue) for you.

Brother leaning against a building (preferably condemned-capturing the essence of our time), a broken guitar sadly leans against his ripped denim-clad kneecap. Myself front and center, one hand in pocket, other casually dangling finger symbols, suspenders hug my Mr. T t-shirt. Kid-Ginger taps his feet to music the audience can only imagine as there is none actually playing. I stand still, creepily eyeing anyone stopping to watch-holding eye contact like a ninja goldfish, ready to launch.

Brother steadies himself from building, hangs the tattered fret board off one shoulder, saunters down sidewalk, and utters the words:

“Art. Is. Unemployed.”

Enter in the finger symbol.

Tapping the broken guitar against his thigh, he then proceeds to recite select passages from A Christmas Carol, haunting chime of the symbol periodically echoing his phrases.

Finishing with the passages regarding Tiny Tim-(lets say ten minutes later), he again repeats the phrase:

“Art. Is. Unemployed.”

At which point, the symbol releases me from my frozen stance as I start quickly repeating that gem from the 80’s:

“I pity the fool. I pity the fool. I pity the fool. I pity the fool.”

Which of course, is Kid-Ginger’s cue to slam out air guitar, full with leg kicks and the occasional head-bang. This goes on for about five minutes, with my intonation ranging from childlike to scary-beast voice (have practiced in mirror-fear not readers, fear not).

Final symbol chimes.

We both freeze.

Kid-Ginger looks over at me, sighs and utters:

“Fool.”

I return my hands to my pockets, glare at the audience and state:

“Pity.”

With any luck, we’d end up with enough cash for two orders of waffles at IHOP.

If ordering those at that establishment isn’t enough indication of our nonconformist nature, then I’d better start revamping my resume.

After this at least I can add ‘ability to make fool of self for cash’ under skills.